The Jack Finney Reader

by Jack Finney

  We're growing them, Budlong said. Cut up a potato, and you can grow dozens more from the portions. It's a common enough, natural enough phenomenon. From a few of the original pods, hundreds more were produced. He nodded down at the street. There go the last of the latest ones, mature and ready. Acres more of them are growing out at Art Gessner's farm.

  I looked at the street. Three of the farm trucks were gone, and the last one, the rear end empty, was backing away from the curb. Already women were trundling wire shopping carts inside the supermarket; I saw people sitting down at the counter of Elman's Restaurant, others sauntered into and out of various stores, and once again cars moved slowly along the street. The scene was normal again, a more or less typical main street, perhaps a little shabbier than is usual, but not enough to arouse wonder in a passing stranger. Not a person I could see wore a yellow-and-blue jubilee button now.

  I swung around and stared at the men in the room. Well, what are you waiting for? I shouted. What're you trying to do — torture us?

  Nothing moved or changed in their faces. Mannie said mildly, No, Miles. Don't you see? We have to wait till you're asleep.

  Budlong turned from the windows and walked to his chair. Across the room, Mannie sat with his hands folded in his lap. In the straight-backed chairs near the door, the other two sat, arms folded, and the room was silent. They simply sat — eyes blinking occasionally — emotionless, imperturbably waiting.

  Becky was trembling violently; her face pressed against my chest, and I held her in my arms. I needed time, desperately, and I said, Mannie, once we were friends. Maybe you remember a little of how that was.

  Of course, Miles.

  You don't feel it now, but if you remember anything of the way that was, then leave us alone. Until we can sleep. Becky can't stand this, Mannie. Lock us in my office alone. You can guard the hall doors; we can't get out. So give us that much — leave us alone together. How can we sleep with you watching us?

  Mannie glanced at Budlong, who nodded, not caring particularly, and then he turned to the others, who shrugged. All right, Mannie said, no reason we shouldn't, and he stood, walked to the heavy wood door leading to my office, and turned the key in the lock, testing it. He unlocked it again, then held it open, and Becky and I walked on through. As the door began to close, I glanced back. The stout, bald man had opened the outer door of my reception room and was standing in the hallway, stooping for something on the floor. Then he straightened and walked back into my reception room — and his body was nearly hidden by the two enormous pods he was carrying. Then the office door clicked shut behind Becky and me and the key turned in the lock. I heard a faint scraping sound, and I knew two great pods were now lying on floor just outside the door, so very near to us, yet out of our reach.

  I took hold of Becky's arm and led her to the big leather chair in front of my desk; she sat down and I sat on the arm, my arm around her shoulders.

  For a little time we were silent, and I sat remembering the night — not long ago, yet very long ago — when Becky had come here to tell me about her cousin, Wilma, who had been one of the first to discover the changes the pods effected — and who was now one of their victims.

  I love you, Becky, I said quietly.

  She looked up at me to smile, then leaned her head back against my arm. And I love you, Miles.

  From beyond the locked door, I heard a faint familiar sound, yet for an instant I couldn't recognize it — it was the snapping sound a dry, brittle leaf makes when crushed. Then I knew it was the pods beginning their work. I glanced quickly at Becky, but if she'd heard it she gave no sign. I wish we'd been married, Becky.

  Oh, Miles, so do I! She lifted her head, her face anguished, to look up at me. Miles, why didn't we?

  The reasons had seemed real ones, but they meant nothing now, and I simply shook my head. I had thought the fact that we had both been divorced somehow made us different, but now I knew it didn't. We were the same as everyone else, making mistakes, seeking happiness.

  After a moment Becky went on, Miles, we had a better chance than most. We knew what failure was like, something of what caused it, and a little of how to guard against it. We'd have had a chance to be happy, and that's all anyone gets. And it's the most anyone could ever have given me.

  Suddenly I was as determined as I've ever been in my life. I was going to marry Becky! I was going to defeat these pods singlehanded if I had to. Nothing was going to stop me!

  I got up and started prowling the little office, hunting for something, anything, that could help us. There had to be a way out of this now; I had to have another chance, and so did Becky.

  But there was nothing in my desk drawer: only prescription pads, blotters, calendar cards, paper clips, rubber bands. There was my instrument cabinet across the room, the shelves covered with neatly folded white towels on which lay rows of stainless-steel forceps, scalpels, hypodermic needles, scissors, disinfectants, antiseptics.

  There wasn't much else — the office scale, my examining table, an enameled white wall cabinet of bandages, adhesive tape, tongue depressors. There was furniture, rugs, my desk, my diplomas on the wall — there was nothing. In my lower left-hand desk drawer, I found Benzedrine tablets, and I slipped the little bottle into my pocket. We'd need that to keep us awake.

  And then I wondered why the pods had begun to change. Becky and I were both awake, so what human matter was there in my office that was causing these pods to begin changing?

  Finally I sat at my desk. If there was any way out of this, it was in my mind; I had to save my energy.

  Time passed, with an occasional brittle snap from the other side of the closed door, and I made myself sit where I was, remembering everything I knew about the great pods.

  After a time I looked up slowly; in the leather chair before my desk Becky sat silently watching me. Very quietly, both asking her advice and thinking out loud, I said, Suppose, just suppose there were a way — not to escape; there's no way to escape — but to make them take us somewhere else. I shrugged. To the city jail, I guess. Suppose there were a way to do that?

  What are you thinking of?

  A way to gain time. A chance for Jack and Theodora to get back here with help, I said. I didn't want to admit to Becky that I was afraid the Belicecs might not have got out of Santa Mira, but from the expression in her eyes I knew she was thinking the same as I.

  Becky said, If they did transfer us to the jail, do you think you could hit them, knock them out unexpec—

  I was shaking my head. We've got to think real, Becky; this isn't a movie, and I'm not a movie hero. No, I couldn't possibly handle four men; maybe not even one, tired as I am. I very much doubt that I could handle Mannie, and Chet Meeker could break me in two. Hell, I don't even know if we could make them take us out of here. Probably not.

  But supposing they do transfer us — we ought to have a plan, Miles.

  I shook my head. I was still trying to figure out why those two pods in the reception room were preparing, getting ready to duplicate the nearest life substance: cell and tissue, bone structure and blood. And that meant us, but we weren't lying quietly asleep, our body processes slowed down and defenseless. I glanced at Becky, perplexed. Look, I said, there must be a substitute here, something human that is making those two pods expend themselves.

  Becky frowned, wondering what I meant, and then it came to me. I reached out, opened the closet beside my desk and pointed at the two skeletons, male and female, that had once stood, on their old-fashioned mountings, in my father's office. They did live! Suddenly I was talking rapidly and excitedly, almost as though convincing Becky were all I needed to do. They're bone structure — human, and absolutely complete! And if Budlong is right, the atoms that compose them are still held together by the very same sort of patterns of force lines that held them together in life, and that hold ours together now. There they are, ready, willing, and apparently able to be taken over, their patterns copied and reproduced instead of ours. Becky, we can
gain some time! We can make them waste those pods out there!

  In absolute silence, infinitely careful never to bump the loose-swinging limbs against the closet walls, I lifted out the male skeleton, carried it to the locked reception-room door and laid it on the floor, face down so we wouldn't see that grinning mouth. Seconds later I laid the female skeleton beside it, and now they were only inches away from two great pods on the other side of the door.

  We stood looking down at them for a moment; then I turned to the instrument cabinet at the wall and took out a 20-c.c. syringe. From a vein in Becky's forearm, I withdrew 20 c.c. of blood, and a moment later — quickly before the blood could clot — the collar and several rib bones of the female skeleton were streaked red. From my own arm I withdrew another 20 c.c. and bent quickly over the male.

  Miles, don't — don't.

  I looked up to see Becky shaking her head, eyes averted, but I didn't stop.

  Miles, please; I can't stand it — the way they look. Please don't.

  I turned toward her. All right. I don't know at all that it will do any good, except that it's just that much more living matter — I let it go and didn't finish. But I left the figures on the floor as they were. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

  We sat, Becky in the leather chair, I at my desk. Then Becky began speaking. Slowly, doubtfully, and pausing often to look at me questioningly, she described an idea, a plan that had occurred to her, a plan of attack in case this delaying tactic worked and we were released from this room for transfer to the jail.

  I listened, and when she stopped, waiting for an answer, I smiled and nodded, trying not to look immediately discouraging. Becky, it might — it probably would — work, as far as it goes. But I'd still end up struggling on the floor with two or three men on top of me.

  Miles, please! While you're fighting them, what do you think I'm going to be doing — cowering against a wall, hands raised to my face in horror?

  I smiled and nodded.

  And that's what they'll think too — the stereotype of the woman's role in that situation. And it's exactly what I will do — until I know they've seen and noticed me. Then I can do what you did. Why not?

  I tried to consider what she'd said, but Becky couldn't wait. Why not, Miles, why can't I? She paused for an instant, then said, I can. You'll be beaten up; you'll have a bad minute or so, but then — why couldn't it work? Why couldn't this be the way to gain time until … She stopped, afraid to mention the hope we were clinging to: that the Belicecs had escaped.

  I was afraid. I didn't like this at all; this was a matter of life and death, and we were going at it in a spur-of-the-moment, improvising way. We had to think and be certain of what we were doing, take the time to be right, and know we were right. Yet now, like soldiers suddenly caught in enemy fire, the most important thinking of our lives had to be done on the spot and under terrible strain, with the penalty for anything less than perfection being death or worse. There was no time for more careful planning! We certainly couldn't sleep on it, I thought, and smiled with no amusement at the joke.

  Miles, come on! Becky whispered, She was standing, reaching across the desk, yanking at my sleeve. You don't know how much longer we have!

  There was a light tapping at the outer door of my office, and from the hallway outside I heard Mannie's voice, very soft and quiet.

  Miles? he whispered.

  I didn't answer. If he thought we were asleep, so much the better. Mannie's cautious whisper proved that something was happening to the pods.

  He didn't call again; and now there was no guessing how much longer we'd be alone, how long we'd have before they discovered we'd tricked them. I hated what we were going to do, hated pinning hope on this one flimsy notion of Becky's, but certainly I couldn't think of anything else. All right, I said, and stood up, walked to the little wall cabinet, and took out a wide roll of adhesive tape. At the instrument cabinet, I gathered up everything we needed; then, at my desk, I unbuttoned Becky's sleeves at her wrists, pushed back my own sleeves, and went to work.

  It didn't take long — four minutes, maybe — and while I was pulling down my sleeves. Becky was buttoning the sleeves of her dress. Then she said, softly, Miles, look!

  I turned to look, narrowing my eyes to make sure I was seeing it, and then I knew that I was. The yellow-white bones on the floor by the door looked — different. I can't say how, but they'd changed.

  It may have been the color, though I couldn't be sure, but it was more than that, too. The sense of sight is more subtle than we're accustomed to think; we see more than we give ourselves credit for. We say, I could tell by looking, and though sometimes we can't explain how that could be, it is usually true. Those bones had lost hardness, although I don't quite know what I mean by that, or how we could see it. Their form hadn't changed, but they'd lost some degree of rigidity or firmness — like an ancient wall of loosened bricks, its form still unchanged to the eye, but the mortar crumbling. Some strength had left the bones. Whatever was holding each bone together, giving it its form and shape, was weakening. And the eye could tell it.

  Trying not to hope too much, ready for disappointment, not yet able to trust what I sensed, I stared. Then suddenly, in the flick of an eye, in the nearest figure on the floor — on a little inch-long segment of the ulna, one of the two bones of the forearm — a patch of gray appeared. Nothing more happened for the beat of a heart; then the patch lengthened, and continued to lengthen, extending in both directions, shooting out along the yellow-white bone. Then it was like an animated-cartoon sequence in which a picture is sketched impossibly fast, the lines flashing out in all directions faster than the eye can follow. On both figures on the floor, the gray shot out along the bones, following their lines with enormous speed — the entire rib cage of one, in the flash of an eye. Then the bone-whiteness was gone, and for a suspended instant of time the two skeletons lay there, composed in perfect completeness of gray weightless fluff. The instant ended, and they collapsed — a puff of air would have done it — into a formless little heap of dust.

  The door of my office opened instantly, and the four men came in, hurrying, their faces utterly calm and composed, completely devoid of emotion. I looked past them, through the partly blocked door. There on the brown rug, yellow-white and reproduced in absolute perfection down to the last useless detail, lay two skeletons, red-daubed on the shoulders. Beside and under them, nearly unnoticeable on the rug, lay the brittle fragments of the two great pods.

  Budlong said, So that's what happened — you used substitutes. Very interesting.

  All right, Miles, Mannie said. You've managed to waste these pods; but now we'll simply hold you in a cell till we can get others.

  I just nodded, and we all went out then, into the building hallway. Mannie said, We'll go down the fire stairs. The car's in back. And we walked along the hall to the fire door, then began filing down the staircase.

  They had Chet Meeker and the little stout man first, Becky and me in the middle, Mannie and Budlong directly behind. There was no reason I could think of for waiting, and as we approached the first landing, I placed my palms together loosely before me, the thumb and forefinger of each hand sliding into the opposite sleeve. The fingers of each hand touched and pulled loose the strips of adhesive just above my cuffs. Then — and this was Becky's plan — each hand held a loaded hypodermic syringe.

  Stepping onto the landing, beginning the turn to the next flight of stairs, the little stout man was on the inside, gripping the stair rail; and Chet Meeker swung out to walk beside him. I stepped suddenly forward, directly behind him, shoving Becky to one side with an elbow, flinging her into a corner of the landing. Both my hands shot instantly forward, hard and fast, the needles tight between my fingers, thumbs on the depressors, and I gave each man 2 c.c. of morphine in the great muscles of the buttocks.

  They yelped and swung toward me as Mannie and Budlong leaped onto my back. I was smashed to the steel floor, gouging, kicking, using the needles as
weapons. But four against one, they had me overpowered in seconds; both needles were kicked out of my hands, one ground to powder and glass fragments under a heel. They had one of my arms and both legs pinned tight, and I was wrenching and jerking my free arm, trying to keep them from pinning it. Becky — I saw it, and so did they — stood huddled in a corner against the brick walls, trying to keep clear of the struggling mass of men, the flying feet and arms. She cowered helplessly, eyes wide and frightened, both hands raised in horror to her open mouth.

  Then, as I struggled, the sound of our panting and grunts loud and echoing, Becky's fingers — her hands still upraised, eyes still wide and astonished — flickered at the sleeves of her dress. She yanked both strips of adhesive loose, stepped forward suddenly — as Budlong and Mannie leaned over me, grabbing at my flailing arm — and plunged home both of the needles she held in her hands. Mannie straightened; I lay there motionless, and for a moment we all stood, knelt, or lay in a frozen tableau. They stared at Becky, then looked down at me.

  What are you doing? Budlong said puzzledly. I don't understand. Then I rolled to my knees, starting to rise, and they were on me again.

  It's hard to say, it isn't easy to judge, how long we struggled there. But then Chet Meeker, kneeling on my arm, sighed gently, and toppled limply sideways onto the next flight of stairs, and rolled, slowly bumping each step, till his feet caught in the stair rails. They stared after him, and Mannie said, Hey! Then the little stout man, kneeling at my head, hands on my throat, let go, and dropped back, slumping against the wall in a sitting position, and sat there blinking at us.

  Budlong looked down at me, his mouth opening to speak; then his knees bent, and he fell heavily onto the steel floor, muttering something I couldn't make out. Mannie had grabbed the railing with both hands, and now he bent over to lay his forehead on the backs of his clenched hands. After a few moments, he slowly knelt to the floor, then he fell face forward on the metal floor.